Material Girl
by Mrs. Witter
Summary: As Madonna sings, Cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl. Some girls know what they're talking about.


**Title**: Material Girl
    
    **Author**: Mrs. Jamie Witter
    
    **Rating**: PG-13.
    
    **Improv**: mercury ~ jovial ~ intellect ~ keg ~ granite.
    
    **Disclaimer**: Don't own them at all. Belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the WB.
    
    **Author's Notes**: This is my first improve fic. My first Louise vignette. Be nice is all I have to say. Criticism of the constructive kind is welcomed. I dedicate this fic to Susie who is always so supportive of my writing! Love you, Susie. 
    
    **Spoilers**: Takes place after the Season Two Finale. Season One and Season Two spoiler-ish.

Damn it, it's hot. 

And I hate Paris Gellar. Because of her, I am sitting on a hard chair in a stuffy Chilton classroom listening to her drabble on about her political ambitions and the perseverance and commitment she expects from her band of misfit political party. The mercury is rising and my patience and interest is waning. 

I sigh, uncross my legs and inch the edge of my short skirt up a bit. My eyes meet Stephen Xavier's gorgeous blue ones briefly across the room – right before his gaze drops back to my newly exposed flesh. With a small wicked smile, I arch and eyebrow and hitch up my skirt a bit more before straightening it out completely.

"Tease," he mouths from his place.

I merely look away with another sinful smile. I guess I have a date for tonight.

I know it doesn't take much for a guy like Stephen to ask a girl out – just a pretty face and good body - I have that in spades. Maybe I do come off as arrogant and snobbish at times but I look at myself like someone who knows what she has – what she's capable of and uses it to her advantage. For pleasure. 

Like that Madonna song: _Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. I think they're O.K. If they don't give me proper credit, I just walk away_.

Is that so bad? 

Yes, it is. Socially unacceptable, in my case. I'm a tease, a whore, promiscuous. But to hell with society. Too many rules. To many taboos. I can't live like that. Not really.

Society is strict, rigid, and hard as granite. But here in the confines of the upper class of Hartford Connecticut, I bend to society. I conform. Because most girls are sluts. Most girls spend hours in supply closets hiking their skirts up and getting what they want. That's what everyone does…maybe it's a different kind of society.

Maybe there is a part of me, buried deep down inside that wants a guy to see more in me than a pretty face and a good lay. Maybe one day, that part will rear its head. For now, I'm satisfied.

They can beg and they can plead, but they can't see the light, that's right. 'Cause the boy with the cold hard cash is always Mister Right.

"Louise, are you listening to me?" Paris asks irritated.

"Of course," I reply bored and stretch languidly. She gives me a dissatisfied and disappointed look and then returns to her speech.

I know she expects more from me. She's probably the only one in the world. Paris Gellar is not most girls. We have a friendship, one that even seems a little odd to me. It started in the first grade when she stood up for me to a bully. No one had ever done that for me – no one else ever has since that day.

I respect her and I secretly admire her.

She has standards, although they some time get messed up when she feels threatened. And I sympathize with her inept social skills – I guess in that sense I can help her within the walls of the socially challenging Chilton.

Not that I'd ever get Paris to throw a keg party or anything.

But Paris isn't worried too much about society. I know it hurts her when boys overlook or downright ignore her because she refuses to wear make-up that gives her any sort of a smooth complexion, doesn't bare-all at parties and isn't willing to make out in front of lockers…of course her dominant attitude scares people away too.

My gaze wanders from Paris to Rory Gilmore, who's sitting near a window listening intently to the daunting dirty blonde in front of her, not intimidated, not nervous – in fact, she's smiling in Madeline's direction, both of them sharing a secret joke that I will get out of Madeline later. 

I often wonder what it's like to be Rory. She's innocent. Wears thick rose-colored glasses that will be knocked off one day in the near future. 

_'Cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl_. 

But she's cool. In her own quirky, jovial way. 

She matches Paris in intellect Sometimes Rory outwits her because she isn't as neurotic as Paris. They respect each other though neither one of them would ever say it to one another.

I'm a little jealous of their odd acceptance of each other because I know beneath the surface they both would be great allies. Great friends. Sometimes I wish they never realize that.

Other times, when they're at odds, I wish they would.  

Maybe if it wasn't for Tristan and PJ Harvey.

I want to slap Rory just to shake her out of her unsuspecting little trance. The girl was so oblivious to how much she affected the golden boy of Chilton – and how much Paris resented her for that. It was because of Paris I stayed away from him. Even though I thought we'd both make each other happy – sexually speaking, of course.

I guess it isn't Rory's fault. 

But boys should never come between friends - that's my policy. Unless of course it's Luke Perry.

_Boys may come and boys may go that's all right with me_.

Paris and Rory seem to forget that high school boys aren't the only ones out there. Like the character of Nan says in "Circle Of Friends", these boys are just for practice.

_Experience had made me rich and now they're after me_. 

There's no knight in shining armor. And even Rory's Mr. Wonderful won't last her a lifetime. I'll be surprised if he makes it past this year.

_'Cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl_.

Paris finally dismisses everyone. 

As I walk out of the classroom with Madeline, who is yammering away, I re-apply my lip-gloss and then check my purse to see if I have my credit card so I could make a pit stop at the mall.

_A material, a material, a material girl_. 

Damn, now that song is stuck in my head.

THE END


End file.
